


we pull the bodies out of the lake

by Ellis



Series: and no one could sleep [2]
Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellis/pseuds/Ellis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People stop believing in monsters under their beds when it occurs to them that monsters are not vampires or ghosts or anything else their minds can come up with—clowns for some, dogs for others—no—the real monsters in the world are the fellow people they look at too closely, only to find themselves reflected in someone else’s face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we pull the bodies out of the lake

**Author's Note:**

> Being Human doesn't belong to me. 
> 
> The poem excerpt used at the start of the work is taken from "Wishbone" by Richard Siken (if I remember correctly), and the title is taken from "Crush" by Richard Siken (I can't remember the precise poem).
> 
> This probably won't match up with the finale, because the clip of Rook shunting Tom et al. across the room with a push of his hand is more than likely not going to be Rook-possessed-by-Archangel-Michael. Still, a girl can dream.
> 
> I blame Christina for everything. DARN ENABLER.

_I had four dreams in a row_

_where you were burned, about to burn, or still on fire._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He still has the gun.

 

This is not the purest truth.

 

The real truth is that he still has his gun, that it’s in the right drawer of his desk, that he stares out across Barry with the lightening skies and the tumultuous waves and wonders _what’s the point?_ all the while aware of the gun’s presence pressing down on him like a noose around his neck. Sometimes he waits for it to tighten and strangle him; sometimes he thinks of freeing himself. Sometimes he doesn’t do anything at all: he sits. He waits. He closes his eyes.

 

It’s been eight hours but all he can see is her on the floor, eyes shut, her face framed by blood. It’s been eight hours and really, _really_ he’s No Care, All Responsibility, so he shouldn’t be seeing her face at all. He should not even care; he should be vexed over the fact he cannot file her death with the last of the paperwork because she is freelance, because technically she does not work for him.

 

In the eyes of the department, she does not exist. Like the department itself. Like him.

 

And the dull ache in his chest, the one that feels like it could be put out like a fire if only he had the strength, that burns with a vengeance and twists and thuds and writhes and _hurts_ , intensifies. It’s her hands squeezing his organs in a slow death. It’s her spit turning to venom and burning his skin away. It’s her eyes turning into twin flames and devouring what little of the soul he has left: he deserves it, he supposes. For his own stupidity, for his failure. For his last mistake.

 

“I am so very sorry for my failure,” he says. Soft, low, barely a whisper.

 

Sometimes he brings the gun out, still loaded, presses it to his temple and wonders who will clean up his mess if he fires. Who will protect humanity: he is all that is left, a lone light in an oncoming sea of darkness. What does it matter? His department is being eaten from the inside. Nobody knows it exists; nobody cares.

 

People stop believing in monsters under their beds when it occurs to them that monsters are not vampires or ghosts or anything else their minds can come up with—clowns for some, dogs for others—no—the real monsters in the world are the fellow people they look at too closely, only to find themselves reflected in someone else’s face.

 

They think that’s horror. They think _that_ is the true embodiment of fear, of pain. That seeing themselves on someone else’s face, in their movements, in the way they have chosen to live their life—that this is terror.

 

They will learn the true name of Fear when they are enlightened, when there is no one to hold back the flood.

 

He pities them.

 

Almost.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Natasha says, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

 

He sits up like he’s been shot, back ramrod straight in his bed, the thin covers splaying around him. He’s a light sleeper anyway—has to be, the job calls for it—but even in the last vestiges of sleep, he’s wondering how she managed to get into his flat, into his bedroom.

 

“This is unacceptable,” he says. Somewhere between sleeping and waking, he has grasped the stake underneath his pillow and stares at Natasha for a beat, for two, seeing her but not truly seeing her, not yet. Then:

 

“Am I hallucinating?”

 

“Maybe.” She shrugs. She’s in the clothes she died in, mercifully free of blood. He thinks back to washing her body, to the white cloth turned blood red when he was finally finished. “Have you ever taken drugs?”

 

“No.” She’s pale in the gloom. _Are you eating enough?_ he wants to ask—and then—oh. Yes. That’s right. “Have you?”

 

“Once. Twice.” Again she shrugs; her hair falls over her shoulder as she turns to look at him, perched on the end of his bed like a bird readying itself for flight. At the expression on his face—the disbelief, the irritation—she smiles. “Oh, come _on_. A girl’s got to live a little.”

 

There’s a beat. “Indeed,” he manages.

 

Her eyes flicker to his chest; he is suddenly grateful that he sleeps clothed.

 

“Should’ve known you don’t sleep naked,” she comments.

 

It takes a certain level of poise and grace to ensure his eyes don’t bulge out of his head. He clears his throat. Delicately:

 

“I don’t think my bedroom is the best place to hold a confessional. I am neither a priest nor in the mood to act as one—I believe there’s a church nearby, though I’m afraid I cannot recall if it’s Protestant or Roman Catholic… I lean more towards it being Roman Catholic—”

 

“Off you pop,” Natasha says. She’s smiling but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “This isn’t for me. It’s for you, Dominic.”

 

He pauses. Suddenly his heart is heavy and he is very tired.

 

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” he lies.

 

Their eyes meet. He is afraid that her eyes will be full of judgement, of _why did you fail to protect me?_ but they’re kind and warm and he is very, _very_ tired.

 

“Thank you for burying me,” she says softly, ignoring his omission of the truth. “You know, when I told Tom I had no family—”

 

He raises a hand, placating. “It’s all forgotten now, Natasha.”

 

She says, “You’re lying,” and his chest constricts.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I really must be up rather early in the morning—I have my final meeting with the Home Secretary and I must brief Special Branch on my department’s work.”

 

He forces himself not to look at her as he tucks the stake back under his pillow and rolls onto his side.

 

Even with his eyes closed, he knows she’s still there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They talk about God at one point. He remembers this because he remembers having a similar conversation with his father.

 

It’s two days after Natasha’s birthday.

 

He lingers to ensure she does not do anything stupid now that she’s an adult, like flee without leaving a note or entertain visions of grandeur living in London where she will meet a rich man and live in an uptown flat in Mayfair or Notting Hill. While there’s nothing wrong with aspirations and ambition, his concern is that should she fall short of what she expects of herself, she will be upset—worse—perhaps tempted to do something reckless. He cannot abide recklessness.

 

So—here he is: he sends Arthur to Aberdeen, does not attend his father’s funeral, and begrudgingly accepts her offer of breakfast which he will ultimately end up paying for. Later, much later, he will wonder how many breakfasts, lunches and dinners he bought her, how much time this adds up to, whether or not you can measure years of friendship in the quality and quantity of the food you buy them.

 

(It’s not his fault she turns down healthier food in favour of greasy spoons and overcooked sausages.)

 

“Dominic,” she says with a grin, rolling his name off her tongue like it belongs to her, like it’s a possession she lords around with as a reminder that _she knows him_ , “tell me your life story.”

 

Eye twitching imperceptibly, he orders a tea. He stares at her, keeping his hands in his lap. “No,” he answers softly. He does not think of his father, of his mother. Of blood seeping from his palms because he’s clenching his fists so tightly that he’s injuring himself. “I’m afraid that’s not up for discussion.”

 

Natasha tilts her head. Today she has her hair up in a ponytail; she usually wears it down. She’s wearing perfume, too. He wonders if she has a date. He doesn’t ask.

 

“What _is_ up for discussion?” Her question is slightly teasing, matching the corners of her mouth that promise _this is a joke_.

 

He shrugs. Says: “You, I suppose.” Doesn’t say: _As always_.

 

“Do you believe in God?”

 

“Do you?” He lifts his chin. The waitress sets his tea down in front of him. Natasha pulls a face; he does not ask why.

 

“This isn’t twenty questions, Dominic—”

 

“Isn’t it?” He picks his tea up delicately, observing her with an air of forced detachment. “You’ve always been inquisitive.”

 

Natasha takes a sip of her orange juice, deliberately slurping the liquid. She smirks as his jaw tightens.

 

“You have rosary beads in your car,” she says. “Do you believe in God?”

 

“Someone carrying around symbols of a religion does not necessarily dictate that they are a practitioner or indeed a believer of that religion.” He sets his cup down without touching the tea. “To assume so would be foolish: some aspects of Christianity give comfort to those who may not believe in God—for instance, there are those who believe that having a cross dangling over one’s heart protects them for evil, or keeps their loved ones close to them after they’ve died.”

 

“Is that what you believe in? Protection from evil?”

 

There is a moment of silence.

 

“Needs must,” Dominic says quietly. “If there _is_ a higher power, they have a responsibility to protect that which they have… created. Given the existence of supernatural creatures, and the rising attacks on humans…” He shrugs his shoulders. “It would appear that a higher power does not exist, or that they have simply given up caring.”

 

“The Pope seems to think differently.” She raises an eyebrow and cuts into a mushroom.

 

He winces at the movement of her cutlery, makes a noncommittal noise of distaste in the back of his throat. “Yes. Well. The Pope is—the idea that God speaks to him and him alone is—it’s all difficult to believe at best.”

 

“And yet,” Natasha says lightly, “vampires and werewolves and other things exist. Who’s to say God isn’t talking to him right now?”

 

“I have been unable to find any evidence to support that theory,” he retorts stiffly, annoyance flaring up in him.

 

She laughs. Throws her head back and _really_ laughs and for a moment he’s too shocked to do anything—shocked at the sound, at the fact she’s laughing at something he’s _said_. He wants to say: it’s not a joke. I mean it. I have been unable to find _any_ evidence supporting this theory, this ludicrous idea that God speaks to only one man when he has millions of followers who need to hear His voice, who _claim_ to hear His voice— _but_.

 

“Oh, my God,” she breathes in between the laughter. “Did you try to go to the Vatican to _investigate the Pope_?”

 

“The Home Secretary believed it would be a valuable waste of resources and cast a bad light on England’s reputation, the likes of which have not been seen since Henry VIII directed our country away from the Catholic Church and into the arms of Protestantism.”

 

He tries not to grind his teeth as he recollects Alistair’s absurd reasoning for killing the investigation. Years later, it’s still a source of deep irritation and injustice.

 

She stops laughing after a few moments. The silence that follows is a hollow, cheap imitation of quiet, brought about by his unwillingness to speak. Is that what you believe in? He shouldn’t have answered, shouldn’t have said anything.

 

“What do _you_ believe in?” he asks, eyes alight.

 

Natasha looks up from her plate. Considers the question. “I don’t know.” Her statement is vacant and detached; she hunches over, closes in on herself. “Sometimes I think—”

 

“What?” he presses, leaning closer.

 

“I wonder. That’s all.” She shrugs. Goes back to her food. Then: “This is becoming tradition, isn’t it?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The funeral takes place two days after her death.

 

He does not believe in God but he makes a deal with a priest and selects a coffin that’s more than adequate. He skims through the Bible to find quotes that pertain to grief, to caring, to family. He does not think of his failures because this is not the time to think of himself. He buys lilies and supervises the digging of her grave.

 

He is the only one in attendance at her funeral. There is no wake. There is no obituary in the local newspaper. She does not exist in much the same way that he does not exist.

 

Together they had something to gain from not existing, like it was a secret only they shared. In looking out at the world together, in seeing what they saw together, it probably felt like a bit of a club to her. He doesn’t want to speculate, but the actions of her teenage self point at this to have elements of truth to it. She didn’t start to take it seriously until—

 

He swallows. Her gravestone reads DAUGHTER. FRIEND. MISSED. QUEM DI DILIGUNT ADOLESCENS MORITUR.

 

 _Missed_. Because he is the only one left now, and they were _like family_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Somehow she talks him into taking her back to the place where he found her. Says something about _closure_ , about wanting to understand where she came from so she can understand where she’s going. She probably Googled the latter in order to make her argument more convincing, he thinks, but reluctantly agrees to her demands after two months of her raising the subject in conversation.

 

It’s not a road trip, but it’s—it’s close. It takes hours to drive from Barry to London. She sleeps for most of the way, blurring between the child she was and the adult she is now, and sometimes offers to drive. He points out this is ridiculous: he knows she can’t drive.

 

“I only want to drive your Lexus for a bit,” she says. Her grin reeks of mischief.

 

“Working for the government does not mean I can break whatever laws I see fit,” he replies.

 

“Right,” she deadpans. “Funny how that’s what the government seems to do most these days, isn’t it?”

 

He chooses not to think about the creatures he’s killed: vampire, werewolf, even humans.

 

And then they eventually arrive and it’s—it’s—it’s _whatever_ , it’s difficult to describe; Natasha’s shoulders tense and her back straightens and she pushes her hands into the pockets of her hoodie and scuffs at the floor with the tip of her trainers and looks from him to the warehouse and back again, over and over and over, like she’s looking for guidance, and he slips a torch out of the glove compartment and clears his throat and almost, almost takes her hand.

 

Almost.

 

Except he doesn’t—except in an alternate universe he does—here they walk side by side, with him leading the way only slightly, only a pace or two ahead of her, unlocking doors and undoing chains and freeing bolts and bringing her back into the darkness.

 

Things are different—it no longer smells of death, there are no longer bodies littered everywhere, bloody mattresses, blood on the walls, on the floor. It’s clean(er). Still dark, but clean. His torchlight punctures the darkness with ruthlessness; she is two steps behind him, coming up to his shoulder, eyeing the surroundings with a mixture of weariness and and and

 

“I almost remember.”

 

Her voice is a whisper. He turns, pauses for a second. “You said you _did_ remember.”

 

“Bits and pieces.” She averts her eyes, twisting her body away from him. “But being here… it’s…”

 

It’s her eyes. He sees it now: the rapid movement, taking everything in too quickly to process it. In three seconds she’ll go into shock. In four, she might collapse. She might not, but she _might_.

 

There it is—her eyes flicker again and she takes a step back, uncertain, teeth sinking into her lower lip. Her knees buckle; he is grateful for his years of training, for his mantra that no longer applies, because his arms are around her (she is eight years old and burying her face in his neck and _close your eyes don’t look at the monsters_ ) and he’s lowering her to the floor, careful, gracious, delicate.

 

“Natasha, Natasha, Natasha,” he’s saying. Not quite praying, but close enough. His hands are on her forehead, her cheek, checking her pulse. Her eyes are open but unseeing; he thinks flashbacks. He isn’t sure. Still—“You’re quite safe, Natasha. You’re quite, quite safe.” Clumsily: “You’re safe with me.”

 

“I saw my mother die,” she whispers, and he goes to frown but stops himself, focuses on keeping her mind in a relatively safe condition. His fingers skim her forehead again, touching and yet not quite touching. He remembers he wore gloves to touch her when he found her.

 

He does not say: I saw mine die, too. He does not say: a vampire killed my mother, too. He does not say: my father let my mother die.

 

His lips form a thin line. He sighs softly. He says “I’m sorry,” and later he will say “this is the nature of vampires.”

 

Again he leads her out of the darkness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The joke is that “we’re like family” is the hardest thing he’s ever had to say at precisely the wrong time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Did you know,” she whispers in his ear, “that Heaven genuinely exists?”

 

He does not move. Still, she senses his transition from unconscious to conscious and smiles against his skin.

 

“Thought not.”

 

Exhaling, he forces himself not to reach for his stake. She is Natasha, not a vampire. “You’re back.”

 

“Can’t get rid of me, champ.”

 

She rises and perches on the edge of his bed again, still in the same old clothes. He wonders if she can change out of them or if that’s impossible. He wants to ask—the research—the things he could learn—is she even a ghost?—but thinks better of it.

 

“It would seem so, yes.” From his current position on his back, he can see her perfectly. Her eyes are on him and she’s smiling more now than she ever did when she was alive—and that word makes the ache in his chest return and intensify. “Are you haunting me, Tasha?”

 

Natasha’s smile widens. “I have better things to do than that.”

 

“And yet.” He sits up. Rolls his eyes. “Here you are.”

 

She leaves no imprint on his covers that he can see. Perhaps she’s a hallucination. “You used to believe in God, didn’t you, Dominic?”

 

There’s a tangible pause in the air, a pressure that comes from nowhere and digs into his temples. He tilts his head and thinks he’s too old for this, his department is dissolved, this is no longer any of his business, he has no reason to care, why should he care when it’s him and him alone against a sea of monsters, _how does she know_?

 

“No.” His lips are a thin line. “My mother did.”

 

“Oh.” The softest noise in all the world. Her eyes soften; he hates the pity found there with a vengeance. “And then—”

 

“No care, all responsibility.” His voice is flat. “It isn’t my intention to be rude, Natasha, but it’s—” his bedside clock reads 3:06AM. “—it’s late.”

 

This discussion is never going to happen. She’s dead. This—this entire thing—is a fabrication of his mind. Perhaps it’s better that his department is closed. You can’t have a madman running an elite department combating supernaturals and protecting the human race.

 

“I believed in God until foster home number two insisted He didn’t exist. Being an impressionable fifteen-year-old makes you change your beliefs sometimes. And sometimes I didn’t believe in God. It used to depend on the day. Sometimes I’d look outside at the weather and think—yeah, there must be a higher power up there somewhere. And sometimes I’d think… vampires killed my mum, and _I_ was found in a vampire nest. What kind of fucked up God would do that to someone?”

 

He is silent. Is this a test? There’s something about her voice that’s impassioned, that reminds him of the girl in the café laughing about the Vatican and asking him about his rosary beads.

 

“I’m afraid I don’t quite know,” he answers slowly. “If this is a reflection of my failings then I can only apologise a hundred thousand times for my latent inability to protect you, Natasha—”

 

Natasha’s face looks terribly old and terribly sad. “We’re like family. I absolve you of your sins.”

 

He shoots her a questioning look, momentarily rendered incapable of speaking. She’s moving closer to him, further up the bed, and for a moment he’s concerned she’ll do something reckless—he can’t trust that this ghost of her, whatever it is, will have lost her predisposition for senseless acts.

 

But she pauses next to his shoulder and lays a hand upon his chest, over his heart.

 

“All care, all responsibility,” she says. Her hand is warm through the cotton fabric of his shirt, pressing into his skin. “You have a job to do, Dominic.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I saw Satan fall like lightning from Heaven.”

 

The voice is a man’s, and the man is his father but also not his father because his father does not believe in the Bible or the Word of God or the archangels or the rosary beads or Mother Mary, full of grace, or Lazarus, or the crucifixion, or the suffering and the sinning and the absolving of evil, or confessions, or the holiness and protection and sanctity of the Church.

 

And the man is smiling, and the man is not his father because his father rarely smiles; his father is fierce eyes and grim mouth and No Care. And this man smiles and there is strength behind his smile and a warrior’s set to the corners of his mouth and a light that burns behind him like the light of God, and his smile is a smile that engulfs the world.

 

He says and yet he does not say and yet Dominic can hear the words all around him and within him: “I and my angels fought Lucifer.”

 

The words echo, spiralling down to the pit of his stomach and melting into the silence of his mind. He opens his mouth.

 

Says.

 

“Michael.”

 

Almost trembles. Almost fears. Remembers his mother. Counts using the rosary beads.

 

And Michael smiles, sword in hand, wings burning brighter than the sun. “Do you know why I have come to you, Dominic Rook? You are of our Lord, and you belong to God.”

 

Well, he thinks. This must be a dream.

 

“You are not dreaming,” says Michael. “You are here to serve the intent of the Lord. This is your birth name and thus your birth right, and this is what you have always done.”

 

He sees nothing but blinding light.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You have a job to do,” Natasha says. Her eyes are sadder than he has ever seen them.

 

“Yes.” He thinks of his department. His stomach clenches—and then relaxes.

 

“Good luck, Dominic.”

 

She kisses his cheek.

 

Whispers, “thank you,”

 

and then she’s gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And he is filled with light and purpose.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When he forces Tom across the room with a flick of his hand, he understands.

 

And Michael’s voice in his mind says: _you are here to throw the Devil back into the fires prepared for him by legions of angels_. _You are a conductor of my power and you will use it wisely._

 

His hands become fists.

 

_You will be at peace with this power. Revenge is not an option, only Justice._

 

“Your eyes have strayed from humanity in recent years,” Dominic says. “Revenge and justice are interchangeable in many eyes.”

 

_You are a conduit. Justice is your imperative._

 

And yet—

 

No.

 

“Revenge is my imperative.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Captain Hatch screams.

 

He screams.

 

Beyond his line of vision, he senses the pulling together of three unique forces. Vampire. Werewolf. Ghost. And there is power there—power that he can taste as he screams, as he chokes on his own blood and Hatch kneels and he has his hands around Hatch’s throat.

 

The thrumming of power intensifies. He can smell blood.

 

Natasha’s—

 

His mother’s—

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Light burns out of every pore in his body.

 

Hatch is still screaming.

 

There is blood everywhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And then there is nothing but silence.

 

And light.

 

And a voice that says,

 

“I absolve you of your sins.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And then there is a door.


End file.
